


Whiskey Lullaby

by totalconfushun



Series: Micki Moments [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalconfushun/pseuds/totalconfushun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's "cured" now, but she's at the bottom of every bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Lullaby

Forearms braced on the table, his hands cradled the bottle like a lover. Like he'd cradled her in the back of the Impala. He knew better than to go there, but Good Sense had left the bunker with Sammy.

Creamy skin, satiny hair, silken thighs and pale green eyes haunted him day and night. Want was so far behind him, he couldn't even see it in the rear view - nope, Need was in control now.

Ever since Sammy had cured the demon, he'd been calling the cell number Sam had given him. It was how Sam had contacted her while she'd been looking for the demon. It always went straight to voice mail, and always had the same message...

"Hey, it's Micki. I'm too busy to answer right now. I'm chasing my own demons. Leave a message at ... hell, it's not rocket science. You know what to do."

He'd heard that message a million times just to hear her voice, but he'd only left one message telling her that he was himself again and to give him a call.

The number he'd given her was one that no one else had, not even Sammy. Hell, it was laying in front of him now. He carried it like a damn life line, practically begging it to ring.

But it never did.

How many nights had he sat here with Jack trying to get drunk enough to drink her off his mind? Hell, he'd drank more than he'd ever drank, and there was a pair of grey-green eyes at the bottom of every damn bottle.

He tossed back another shot, enjoying the burn as it traveled down his throat. He was pouring another before that one even landed in his gut.

The phone began to vibrate, dancing across the dark oak of the table. He jerked it up, and trying desperately not to slur his words, he answered it. "Hello, darlin'."

She sounded suspicious. "How'd you know it was me?"

"You're the only one wish the number." He winced at the slur more than the desperate tone to his voice. No chick flick moments.

"You're drunk," she accused.

"Yep," he quipped unapologetically.

"Do you have a reason, or is it just Tuesday?"

Why did she make him all defensive and shit. "I have a reason."

"I got your message. What did you want?"

"You, baby," he groaned.

"Dean, you're drunk," she said softly.

"Been trying to drink you away."

She chuckled softly, a sexy sound that made his dick jerk against his zipper. "And, how's that working out for ya?"

"Not so great, baby," he answered. "You're at the bottom of every bottle, dammit."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "Call me tomorrow when you're sober. If you even remember talking to me."

"Oh, I'll remember," he promised. "I can never forget."

At the silence, he looked at the screen. She'd hung up.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed before tossing back another shot.


End file.
